


Dust Off Your Highest Hopes

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: High School AU, M/M, mentions of bullying / homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has a spot, way in the back row of the school theater, the last little aisle of three seats in a row that are tucked up next to the sound booth. He goes there to nap and to listen to his ipod and go over lines, and everyone knows it’s his, because he sort of runs things in the drama department, and also, he’s written his name on one of the seats with marker.</p><p>So he’s confused when he goes to shut his eyes after classes and before he’s due to begin rehearsals, and there’s someone in his spot. The spot that’s his. And not just someone, as it turns out, but Liam Payne. (High School AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust Off Your Highest Hopes

**Author's Note:**

> so about ten million years ago [greta](http://dangerbears.tumblr.com/) hit me with [these tags](http://dangerbears.tumblr.com/post/37677549053), and i immediately started writing (another) high school AU about theater club louis and ultrajock liam, and then because i'm a monster i totally forgot to finish it, and now these ten million years later i finally have, so, sorry it took me forever greta.

Louis has a _spot_ , way in the back row of the school theater, the last little aisle of three seats in a row that are tucked up next to the sound booth. He goes there to nap and to listen to his ipod and go over lines, and everyone knows it’s his, because he sort of runs things in the drama department, and also, he’s written his name on one of the seats with marker.

So he’s confused when he goes to shut his eyes after classes and before he’s due to begin rehearsals, and there’s someone in his spot. The spot that’s his. And not just someone, as it turns out, but Liam Payne.

“You’re in my spot,” he says when he reaches him, tilting his head curiously to the side, because it’s true, and he can’t think of anything else to say. He’s not _unhappy_ about it; this just hasn’t ever happened before, so he’s not sure what the procedure is. He’s not sure Liam’s ever even been inside the theater before.

“Oh, er, sorry, I’ll just--” Liam starts to say, going red in the face.

“S’alright, I mean,” Louis says hastily. The day as a whole has been dreadfully dull, and this could prove to make the afternoon much more interesting than usual, so he doesn’t want to accidentally chase Liam off. He’s looking a bit skittish already.

“I was just, um, looking for somewhere quiet to revise?” Liam explains, although he turns it into a question, like if that’s not okay with Louis he can change his answer.

“Won’t be quiet in here for very long,” Louis says, flopping down into the seat next to Liam. “We’re rehearsing, and Harry’ll be here soon. He decided he wants to be Frenchie today and, like, y’know how he gets.”

“Um. Not really?” Liam says, which makes sense. Liam’s on all sorts of teams, good at literally every sport, it seems like, and Louis has heard rumors he’s already getting scholarship offers for uni because of it, so it makes sense that he doesn’t really know anything about the kids who stick to the drama department, or how loud and shrill Harry can get when he thinks he’s being clever.

“He’ll rupture your eardrums, mate,” Louis says, shrugging apologetically and smiling at Liam amiably.

“Right, um. I’ll go, then,” Liam says, gathering up his books and papers a bit awkwardly. He stuffs them into his bag and starts to leave, but turns back after a few steps. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Louis shrugs, “I know.”

“Er -- you do?” Liam asks, looking genuinely confused.

“You’re, like, on the football team, mate. And the track team. And some other teams I can’t remember. What’s the one? With the little stick nets?”

“Lacrosse,” Liam supplies weakly.

Louis grins. “Right. So, yeah. I know who you are.”

“Right,” mumbles Liam, going red all over again. Louis hadn’t known someone could blush so much without going lightheaded and passing out. That would be unusual and possibly interesting as well, although Liam might damage his face, which seems a waste.

“Anyway, I’m Louis,” he adds.

“Yeah, I -- I know,” Liam says. Louis can’t tell if he’s just saying it since Louis knew Liam’s name and he figures it’s polite to pretend the same, even though there’s no real reason Liam _would_ know Louis. Still, if he’s lying, he’s got a much better poker face than Louis would have guessed.

“Sorry again,” Liam continues.

“You can stay, if you want,” Louis offers, because there’s something funny about Liam, and anyway, it’s someone new to talk to. More interesting than a nap, at least. It also doesn’t hurt that Liam’s fit -- which Louis had known, obviously, because he’s got eyes, and they’ve been in school together for years, but it’s even more apparent close up like this. Liam’s all broad shoulders and biceps, his jeans slung low on his hips and his thin gray t-shirt pulling taut over his chest, but his short hair looks soft, and his eyes are wide and brown. It makes him looks sort of like a good-natured puppy. Only the sort of puppy who could manhandle you a bit, if it wanted to.

Which is a line of thought that Louis probably doesn’t need to get into.

“Don’t wanna interrupt anything,” Liam shrugs, pulling his eyebrows up in a sweetly apologetic expression, and Louis has to stop himself from clapping his hands together, Liam is so precious.

“Don’t be a prat, you can stay. You should stay!” Louis insists, crossing his legs up under himself and gesturing at the seat Liam had been in.

Liam looks around, like maybe he’s missing something important and he’ll get a hint about it from somewhere around the room, but after a moment he just nods and says “Yeah, alright,” and sits down carefully next to Louis.

“What’re you revising?” Louis asks, peering at the notebook that Liam takes back out of his bag.

“Poetry,” Liam says, sounding morose at the prospect. “From the seventeenth century.”

“Can’t help you there, mate,” Louis says apologetically.

Liam smiles back at him. “That’s alright.” He flips open several books and starts peering closely at the pages of small text, squinting his eyes a bit as he does.

“Why’re you studying poetry, anyway?” Louis asks curiously. “Seems a bit--” He stops himself -- he doesn’t exactly want to _say_ that it seems a bit strange for the captain of the football team to be reading Donne if he doesn’t have to, but it’s still true. However Liam’s probably a lot stronger than he is, so he doesn’t finish the sentence, just in case he takes offense easily.

“I’m in advanced literature this term,” Liam admits, seeming almost embarrassed about it. “I like it, poetry and books and all, it’s just -- I don’t think I’m much use at it? Like, I know when I like something, but I can never say why.” He shrugs, and turns back towards his notebook.

“Oh,” Louis says. He hadn’t expected that answer, really, although he wasn’t sure what he _had_ been expecting. They sit there quietly for a bit, Louis trying not to feel too surprised by how companionable the silence is, and the way Liam’s frowning in concentration as he reads, his lips moving slightly every so often. They’ve never really exchanged words before today, but it doesn’t feel as strange as it probably ought to, sitting there with him. Louis even manages to close his eyes for a while, tilting his head back against the wall behind him before he hears the stage left doors clang open with the first arrival for rehearsals. Louis ignores whoever it is for five more minutes, figuring it won’t be the end of the world if they start late today.

-

“Why’s Liam Payne lurking in the back?” Harry demands when he slouches into the theater twenty minutes later, one of his shoes untied and a beanie pulled over his hair.

“He’s revising for his poetry class, obviously,” Louis explains, following Harry up the stairs to the stage to round up the rest of the students who are starting to come in now.

“Does he actually know how to read?” Harry asks, sounding legitimately surprised at it, although not in a judgmental sort of way, if that’s possible. Still, Louis scowls at him.

“Don’t be an arsehole,” he scolds. “He seems nice.”

“You can be nice and illiterate at the same time,” Harry says mildly.

“Obviously he’s not _illiterate_ , Haz, just because he’s on the football team. Really, stereotypes.” He sticks out his foot to trip Harry on the last step to underscore his point.

“Alright, sorry, I’m only joking.” Harry nudges Louis’ shoulder with his own and they fold down to sit cross-legged on the floor of the stage, letting the rest of the group form a circle with them as they trudge in.

They’ve got to finish the read through of the second act today, and their advisor still hasn’t finalized the audition schedules for next week -- it’s generally assumed what most of the roles will end up as, Harry’ll be Danny and Louis will end up with Kenickie, but there are still several that are up for grabs (Danielle and Eleanor may come to blows over Rizzo), so they’re taking turns reading through them all in order, “to see where everyone’s strengths lie,” according to Mr. Whitshaw. Privately, Louis thinks it’s an excuse to delay making any final casting choices, because as an advisor he’s rather pathetic and has made it known how much he loathes making these sort of decisions -- “the sort an advisor’s meant to make,” Eleanor complains regularly -- and it’ll likely all come down to Louis in the end. He’s been Mr. Whitshaw’s unofficial assistant for the last two years, and even though it can get a bit tiring having to do a job that’s meant to be salaried for free, on top of performing in the play itself, Louis has never been one to say no to the theater. Or minor positions of authority over his peers.

They’ll be lucky if they have enough students willing to audition to fill all the parts, anyway. Grease has a bigger cast than their last two productions had, and all the students who are likely to join the theater department all probably have by now. If they get really desperate, Louis _might_ be able to guilt Zayn into auditioning, if he catches him in exactly the right mood, but he doesn’t want to have to count on that, because Zayn’s a good mate, but Louis doesn’t want to rely on him memorizing anything or turning up places on time.

Midway through their fourth go at a complete and uninterrupted reading of the school dance scene -- Harry keeps wandering off so Louis has resorted to physically restraining him by the shoulders -- Louis cranes his head backwards to crack his neck and sees Liam quietly pushing open one of the back doors. He catches Louis’ eye and raises his hand to wave once, and Louis grins at him before Liam disappears back into the school.

-

When Louis goes to his locker after rehearsal, there’s a note stuck on it with tape, and it peels off a sliver of paint when Louis yanks it off. He thinks about crumpling it, because he can guess what’s inside, but he’s never been good at that, so he unfolds the paper as he pulls on his jacket, sighing when he sees the choice words scrawled haphazardly on it.

It’s not the first time someone’s left nasty notes on his locker (or in his bag, or on the wind screen of Harry’s car), and frankly he’s more offended by the total lack of creativity they demonstrate than anything -- it’s all the same slurs, with slightly different emphasis for variety, and honestly, if they want to call him gay like it’s some sort of aspersion they could at least try to make it _interesting_.

He’ll text Harry to tell him about it when he gets home, and Harry will send him a long row of punctuation and strange little smiley faces that will mean “what idiots” and “that’s not even clever” and “how nice of them to think of you,” and they’ll laugh and it’ll be alright, because this sort of thing really doesn’t bother Louis as much as the people who leave the notes seem to think it does.

So he’s not too bothered about it as he walks home, chucking the note into a bin his passes.

 _Still, though, it gets a bit old_ , he lets himself think briefly, before pressing the whole thing out of his mind.

-

The next day on the way to maths, Louis’ so distracted looking at his own shoes and wondering if he ought to have worn his cream colored trainers instead of the gray ones that he doesn’t notice Liam coming up behind him until he’s walking right at Louis’ elbow.

“Hey, Louis,” Liam greets, like they’re great pals and stop to chat in the hallway all the time.

“Hey,” Louis replies, stopping abruptly as he looks up from his shoes, and as he does so, Liam keeps walking, and collides directly with his shoulder, sending them both stumbling towards a notice board.

“Oh, er. Sorry,” Liam says, smiling sheepishly at Louis as he disentangles their legs and they start walking again, Louis falling into step besides Liam. He feels inexplicably off-kilter and forces himself to concentrate very carefully as they go, trying not to get distracted again by things like shoes or his own limbs or how preposterously _solid_ Liam had felt against him. He’s not sure it ought to be legal for seventeen year old boys to be that strong.

“Thought you were meant to be coordinated,” Louis says, deliberately not glancing over at the wide spread of Liam’s shoulders, or his biceps. He decides to compromise by looking at Liam’s face instead, and Liam just looks at him all perplexed, like a confused but good-natured -- something. Louis all of a sudden can’t think of how to finish that metaphor. “Um, ‘cos of, like. The athleticism,” he explains.

Liam laughs at him at that, instead of going all red and stuttering like Louis had sort of thought he might. “It wasn’t me who stopped dead in the middle of a hallway,” he says, shifting his enormous pile of books to his other arm. It’s quite a large arm. Which, like, that makes sense, given how much Liam must work out for all his various teams, but still -- Liam’s impressively built. Louis is only recognizing that objectively, though -- as, like, a detached admirer of the human physique, that’s all. Not in a _weird_ way.

“I,” he starts, forgetting what Liam’s just said. “What?”

Liam laughs again. “Your rehearsal sounded good yesterday,” he says as they head side by side up the stairs to the third floor science block. Louis isn’t going to science, or anywhere on the third floor, actually, but that seems unimportant at present.

“Wasn’t actually a proper rehearsal,” Louis says, because apparently now he’s remembered how to speak properly, and that’s a good development. Maybe he just needs to focus on topics he knows, like plays and theater and all that, and not let things like arms and shoulders confuse the issue. “We’re sort of behind schedule, we ought to have a cast sorted out by now, except our advisor’s a knob, so.” He shrugs demonstratively.

“Who is it?” Liam asks curiously, like he’s actually interested. Louis really needs to turn around now if he doesn’t want to be late to maths.

“Whitshaw,” he answers instead.

“Oh,” Liam says, nodding. “He’s who I’ve got for literature.”

“Is he a knob in class as well?” Louis asks. “I’ve never had the pleasure of sitting through his lectures.”

“He’s alright,” Liam says mildly. Louis vaguely wonders if Liam is actually as agreeable as he seems, or just good at pretending.

Liam stops in front of a biology classroom, so Louis does as well. “Um. This is me,” Liam says, nodding towards the door.

“Right, yeah,” Louis says. He’s either going to have to turn around and go back the way he came, which would probably look a bit stupid, or loop around and hope he can sprint back down to his own classroom before the bell without breaking his neck. Instead of doing either of those things, though, he just stands uselessly next to Liam in front of his biology class, who for some reason isn’t moving either.

“Would it bother you if I studied in the theater again today?” Liam asks, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

“What? No, ‘course not,” Louis agrees. “Whenever you like. I’ve got a key, too, so I mean that literally.”

“Cool,” Liam nods. “See you around, then, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you,” Louis says, backing aimlessly down the hall, hoping Liam won’t notice him going in reverse if he does it casually enough. Liam just smiles, though, then disappears into the room, and Louis turns to hurry to his own maths class, and he’s only a few seconds late and slightly out of breath when he gets there.

-

Despite their conversation, Louis is still surprised to see Liam in the back of the theater again that afternoon.

“H’lo, Liam Payne,” he greets cheerfully. “Surprise seeing you here.”

“Oh, um -- I said I’d be here? Is it not alright?” Liam asks.

“No, no, you’re alright,” Louis says. “It was a joke. Sort of. Not actually a good one, though.”

Liam grins at him. “Sorry. I’m a bit dense sometimes?”

Louis just waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t pay attention to me, anyway, I tend to talk crap.” He flops down beside Liam, because if he’s going to wait around for the rest of the cast and crew to turn up, he might as well do it somewhere with a nice view.

-

Liam keeps turning up, and before he can stop himself, Louis starts to expect to see Liam in the back of the theater, a mountain of books stacked up around him and buried under piles of his notes, sheets covered in his neat, cramped handwriting.

Liam tells him how he’d like to study modern literature at uni -- his favorite sort of literature, apparently -- even though everyone thinks he’ll only end up playing football. Louis complains about their theater advisor, and how he drags out the auditions long enough that Louis eventually has to organize the whole thing, and the massive headache he gets when Eleanor shouts at him for casting her as Sandy, and not Rizzo. Liam listens, and not in a pretend sort of way -- two weeks into rehearsals, he asks if one of the younger boys is still having trouble remembering his lines at the beginning of the second act, and Louis is so surprised that Liam’s remembered him mentioning it that he has to take a moment to figure out the answer.

Harry finds the whole thing hilarious, because he’s a terrible person, and apparently nothing is funnier to him than the way that sometimes Louis forgets how to talk around Liam. Louis finds it less amusing. And anyway it’s not like it’s _always_ , talking’s generally one of Louis’ main skill sets in life, but sometimes he forgets how big Liam’s hands are, or his shoulders, and when he glances at them without preparing himself, sometimes he can’t remember how to make words come out of his mouth. That’s all.

Liam, on the other hand, seems to be getting used to being around Louis, because he stutters less and ends fewer sentences with a question mark, but sometimes he’ll still trip over his words and go pink high on his cheeks, and not that he’ll admit it, but it sometimes makes Louis’ heart race. Just a bit.

Liam will wave to him in the halls, and sometimes they’ll talk if they end up walking near each other in the halls, but mostly it’s just the two of them sitting in the back of the theater together, Liam’s pen scratching as he takes notes on some thick book filled with tiny print. Louis doesn’t expect Liam to start, like, sitting with him at lunch or anything, because they’re not proper _mates_ \-- the blokes on most of Liam’s teams are still primarily the twats who have been giving Louis and Harry shit for _years_ , and no amount of Liam hanging about in the theater after school will change that enough for Louis to want much to do with them, even just by proximity -- but he still finds himself looking forward to the days he sees Liam despite all of that. It’s enough to just see Liam here, anyway, in the theater, where at least he feels like he’s almost got a grasp on it all.

-

“Hey, listen,” Liam says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he’s leaving before proper rehearsals start one afternoon. The sets crew has started putting together some of the scenery, and the noise from the hammering is distracting. “I know you’re good at like, um. Plays and stuff. So I was wondering if I could ask you a favor, maybe?” He bites his lip in a nervous gesture, but doesn’t look away from Louis.

“Sure,” Louis agrees, wondering what Liam could possibly want his help with.

“Well, like, we’re doing a bit about Hamlet in class next, and I’m sort of lost on it all. Poetry is fine, but plays -- I guess I don’t really get them? So. Do you think you might want to, um. Tutor me, or something?”

“Um,” Louis hedges. “I’d be glad to help, but I dunno if I’m qualified to be a tutor, or anything.”

“No, right,” Liam says, looking like he’s about to start apologizing. “I just thought it might help to have, like. Insights from someone who actually knows about theater? Possibly?”

Louis considers it, trying to think with the part of his brain that’s not focused on the shirt Liam’s wearing today (which is navy and looks very worn and thin, at least from Louis’ perspective), and shrugs when he can’t come up with any good reason to say no. Actually, that’s a lie, because he can, several of them -- for starters, he’d nearly failed his own literature course. But for some reason that doesn’t seem like it matters much, and saying no to Liam doesn’t sound like anything he much wants to do, as it turns out.

“Yeah, alright. I can try, at least. We can meet at the library after rehearsals if you like? Unless you’ve got practice, or a game, or something.”

“Whatever you like,” Liam nods agreeably, and then he licks his lips in a movement that looks almost nervous, and it’s -- it’s all more than a little distracting. Objectively. “I’m, um. Busy for the rest of the week, but maybe next?”

“Cool, yes. I, um. I have to go over... there, now,” Louis gestures towards the stage. “Because of Harry, and the stuff,” he explains, and he knows that sounds like nonsense (he really _does_ have to go shout at Harry to leave the nail gun alone before he winds up shooting himself with it), but his brain’s apparently gone from the premises for the duration, so he thinks he’d better leave before he agrees to anything else.

“Sure, of course. Should I, like, give you my number?” Liam asks, holding out his hand tentatively towards Louis. “So we can figure it out?”

Louis just hands over his mobile to Liam silently, quirking his head slightly as Liam programs in his own number, tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Louis may or may not drop a line during a scene ten minutes later when he realizes what he’s gotten himself into.

-

“Oh God,” Harry groans, laughing in a way that’s really quite rude and not at all proper best mate behavior. “He wants you to be his tutor? He really _will_ be illiterate once you’re done with him, Lou.”

“How dare you,” Louis asks, putting as much outrage into his voice as he can manage. Telling Harry was a mistake. Telling Harry _anything_ is a mistake, and it’s his own fault that he hasn’t learned that lesson by now.

“Liam’s alright,” Zayn says mildly, shrugging and kicking his feet up on the back of one of the theater seats. He’d turned up after rehearsals finished, looking cool and doing the thing where he practices pouting into the distance. He must think Louis can’t tell when he’s at it, but he can. Louis can tell everything.

“Of course he’s alright,” Louis says. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“No, m’just saying, like. He hangs around with that twat Andy, right? And those other tossers? But I think it’s just cos he’s too nice to tell him to fuck off. He’s not like the rest of them, really.”

“And you know this first hand?” Harry asks curiously. “Have you secretly joined the football team when we weren’t paying attention?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, and Louis tries not to let himself laugh out loud at the mental image of Zayn running voluntarily, because even though it’s a hilarious thought, Zayn can get quite touchy.

“Niall’s on the track team with him. Says he’s alright.”

“Oh, if _Niall_ says--” Harry starts, voice going all high and mocking. He mimes something that’s meant to be either a swoon or a seizure, Louis isn’t sure which.

“Don’t _start_ ,” Zayn says. “Christ, I wait around for you lot--”

“You waited around to watch Niall run laps, you twat,” Harry interrupts, but Zayn ignores him.

“I wait around for you lot to offer you a ride home and this is the thanks I get. Maybe you can just walk, then,” he huffs, aiming the last bit at Louis darkly.

“Why’ve I got to walk?” Louis asks. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Zayn says sullenly.

-

Liam doesn’t turn up in the theater for the rest of the week, but Zayn mentions that there had been an important track meet on Thursday and Liam’s apparently broken some sort of record in one of the events, and there’s the football match on Friday evening as well, so he’s probably busy. Louis is a bit disappointed -- just because he’s gotten sort of used to having Liam around, he tells himself. But he’s known that Liam is busy, and so’s he, anyway. He’s finally managed to force Mr. Whitshaw into making sort-of regular appearances at rehearsals, so they’ve finally started properly, which means he has a lot less time to lounge around the back of the theater taking naps and messing about.

Louis does see him on Monday, running laps around the track near the student car park when Harry gives him a ride home early. His shirt’s off, and not that Louis looks, but the way he runs is all smooth and fluid, like he was born to do it, born to move without having to think about it. Not that Louis looks.

“You’re going to get put on some sort of list for perverts if you keep staring at him,” Harry warns him happily as they pull out onto the road.

Louis frowns, but forces himself to drag his eyes away from Liam and focus on the radio instead, flipping around until he finds something cheerful and upbeat that’ll annoy Harry.

-

On one of the days he miraculously doesn’t have play practice, or the prop room to sort out, or any younger cast members to menace about their choreography, Louis actually manages to go straight home after school for once. Harry gives him a ride again, and snatches a note stuck to the windscreen away before Louis can see what’s written on it. He smiles apologetically at Louis as he crumples it up, like he’s the one responsible for its presence, not one of Liam’s idiot teammates. Louis is suddenly reminded -- not for the first time -- what a good mate Harry is, even if he does drive him a bit mad sometimes.

Harry offers to let Louis win at FIFA at his, but Louis says no -- all he wants to do is collapse in his own bed and not have to _do_ anything for a full afternoon. Lottie and his mum both won’t be home for ages, and the rest of his sisters have ballet lessons for the rest of the afternoon, so for once he might actually get a quiet afternoon by himself. The idea is rare and tantalizing enough to almost make his mouth water.

He’s curled under his duvet in bed with a bag of crisps in one hand and the remote in the other when his mobile buzzes in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, he’s surprised to see Liam’s name on the screen.

_heyy louis its liam, sory ive been so busy llately. footballs ben madd!! r u still intersted in helping me revise 4 lit? im still hopeless :(_

Louis swallows heavily, nearly choking on a crisp. He’d sort of forgotten he’d agreed to that, and he still suspects Liam would have better luck with someone who hadn’t been kicked out of their literature classes on a semi-regular basis for falling asleep too often, but he’s agreed, and even though he finds himself getting a bit sweaty now whenever he thinks about Liam, he’s not keen on canceling their plans, either.

 _yeah of course_ , he types. _dunno how helpful ill be but i can try_

 _brill_ , Liam responds moments later. _have u got practce 2moro? ill be dun with track bye 4, u could come 2 mine if u like?_

And that’s -- unexpected. Louis had assumed they’d get together in the theater again, or maybe the library, because those are really the only places they see each other -- at school. Louis can’t convincingly pretend that he hasn’t missed having Liam around lately while they’ve both been busy, but -- but it’s not like they’re the sort of mates who go to each other’s house, or at least not to Louis’ knowledge. It seems a bit strange to think about it, a bit perilous.

But then, it’s Liam, and there’s a strong chance that Louis is just being an idiot, so before he can talk himself out of it he forces himself to respond.

_rehearsal should be over by 5, i can come over after?? gimme yr address :)_

-

Mostly Louis has calmed himself down by the time play practice is over the next day, and is feeling much less unhinged as he walks to Liam’s house. They’re mates, basically. There’s nothing unusual about two mates revising. That’s what he tells himself the whole walk over, and has himself almost entirely convinced by the time he arrives at Liam’s.

“Hi!” Liam greets him loudly when he opens the door. “Er, um. Hi,” he says at a less shouty volume. “You, uh. You found it, then, didn’t get lost?”

“Um, yep,” Louis says, wincing at the awkward way he turns his palms up like he’s trying to demonstrate ‘here I am.’

“Right, yeah, obviously,” Liam says, laughing a bit self-consciously. “You can, um, come in then?” He hauls the front door the rest of the way open, and leads Louis through their empty house. The sitting room is small and cozy and absolutely covered in photographs, of Liam and what Louis assumes must be his sisters, in ridiculous Christmas jumpers and on holiday at the ocean and on birthdays all the way down to when they were small.

“My room’s upstairs,” Liam says, clearing his throat as he shows Louis up the staircase. He trips a little on the top step and goes brilliantly red in the face. Louis realizes that Liam’s _nervous_ , and as soon as he does he has to bite back an uncomfortable giggle, because Liam being nervous instantaneously makes him nervous as well, undoing all the calming breath exercises he’d done on the way over.

Liam’s room is like the rest of the house -- cozy and orderly, smelling faintly of clean laundry. His walls are covered -- absolutely covered -- in ribbons and medals, placards and trophies. Louis spots one in the corner with a photo attached -- Liam from primary school, missing his two front teeth and grinning madly in his several sizes too big football shirt. Somehow, it makes the nervousness that had started twisting his stomach settle.

“Thanks for coming,” Liam says, sounding a bit more at ease now as well.

“‘Course,” Louis says, flopping into a twisted-up position on Liam’s bed. “D’you want to get started?” Liam nods and pulls out several notebooks and a copy of Hamlet from the stack next to his bed.

Louis forces himself to be calm as best he can as Liam sits down beside him and starts to look over his notes.

-

“Which one’s Polonius? The son of someone?” Louis is squinting at Liam’s upside down notes, trying to pick out a name. “Laertes?” He may have overstated his knowledge of Shakespeare, as it turns out. It’d be going much better if Liam was revising for Taming of the Shrew, since they’ve just done that one as their play last autumn, but all he knows about Hamlet is the bits he didn’t sleep through last term. Something about Kenneth Brannaugh and a ghost.

“Other way around, actually,” Liam says gently, like he’s hesitant to correct Louis.

“Right, yeah, that’s what I meant.” Louis isn’t sure why he all of a sudden feels self-conscious -- like if he was any use he’d be able to keep a few swotty characters straight, since he’s the one supposed to be helping Liam out. “Sorry, it turns out I might be even more useless at this than I thought.”

Liam just smiles benevolently. It sort of reminds Louis of a teacher he had when he was ten, who was always gently tolerant of him even though he was dismal in everything, and would give him better marks than he deserved just because she was fond of him.

“S’alright,” Liam says. “I, um. I might be better at it than I thought, too? At least, I think I’ve sorted the first few acts.” He gestures vaguely at his notebooks, which seem to be exploding with papers covered in his scrawl.

“That’s good, then,” Louis says, unsure if he feels relieved or disappointed that his non-existant expertise doesn’t seem to be needed. “Sorry I’m useless as a tutor. Although I did try to warn you.”

Liam just laughs, his eyes going all crinkly, and Louis likes that sound -- he decides he’d like to keep making Liam laugh.

-

Louis thinks it’s all going rather well until an hour later. He reaches for a spare pencil at the exact moment Liam does, and their hands bump as they both fumble for it. “Oh, um,” he says, feeling a rush of nerves barrel into him like a freight train. His hand feels like he’s shocked himself on something staticky where his fingers had brushed Liam’s, and it’s so absurd that he has to peer at it, because that’s not a thing that actually _happens_ \-- you don’t actually feel _sparks_ when your hand brushes against someone else’s, no matter how nice they look in their light blue shirt today.

“Sorry,” Liam apologizes hastily, handing the pencil to Louis. He takes it, for lack of anything better to do, and then looks down at it dumbly in his own hand.

After that, he’s a mess. Every time one of them shifts, it feels like they’re bumping into the other, all awkward edges and movements, forgetting how to navigate around the space another person takes up. The whole thing is making Louis start to sweat -- literally sweat -- because from the moment his fingers brushed Liam’s, every small point of contact is agony -- every time it makes Louis realize with a jolt just how badly he wants to touch the rest of Liam, or have Liam touch him. Liam’s knee brushes his own, and he’s off on an elaborate fantasy of Liam’s hands on the rest of his legs, or cupping his chin, or brushing down the sides of his arm. When Louis accidentally knocks their shoulders together when he goes to turn a page, Liam responds by nervously biting the end of his pen, which conjures up all sorts of ideas about Liam’s mouth and lips that are so wildly inappropriate Louis’ head spins a bit.

He takes a breath in, and tries to steady himself. He can do this. He’s a human being and can behave accordingly, or at least ought to be able to, given all the years he’s had to practice. He can be normal and cool and friendly and decidedly _not_ a sex pest who’s coming over very distracted by the press of Liam Payne’s thigh against his own.

He takes one deep breath that comes out almost a sigh on the exhale, and Liam glances over at him.

“Alright?” Liam asks unsteadily, and Louis has to guess that he knows the answer, but he nods anyway, not trusting his mouth to make actual words at the moment.

“Wait, hold on,” Liam says, and then before Louis can react, he’s leaning in, his face inches from Louis’. _Oh my God_ , Louis thinks hysterically. _He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to be sick on him when he does._

Liam doesn’t kiss him, though. He just reaches over and brushes his thumb softly across the ridge of Louis’ cheekbone, and then pulls it away. “Eyelash,” he explains softly, and then purses his lips to blow it gently away.

“Um,” Louis says, trying frantically to recall the English language. “Thanks.”

Liam just smiles softly at him. “No problem.”

Louis tries to turn back to his notes, feeling himself blushing. He tries to focus, but the words are turning into nonsense squiggles in front of his eyes. He tries to hold out, hoping to maintain at least a little semblance of dignity, but he can feel Liam watching him, and the warmth of his leg where it’s still close. Louis is only so strong, and he only lasts ten more minutes before he pretends to receive a text from his mum, who needs him home _immediately_ , or so he tells Liam.

“Oh, alright,” Liam says. “D’you need a ride home?”

“Nah, no. Thanks, yeah, but no, I’m fine,” Louis babbles, a bit frantic at the prospect of being enclosed in a car with Liam. “I’ll walk.”

He doesn’t manage to get his heart to stop racing until he’s halfway home, but by that point he’s so distracted trying to sort out what’s just happened, he barely notices.

-

“What am I supposed to do, Haz?” Louis asks an hour later. “He’s so fit -- like, _too_ fit. And he’s not stupid, and he likes poetry, and he’s actually very _nice_ , which is just, like. Unfair.” He knows he’s whining, and it’s not very becoming, but he still can’t make himself stop. He shoves his face further into Harry’s bed, because maybe if he just suffocates to death, his problems will be solved by default.

Harry shrugs horizontally from where he’s laying all loose limbed across the foot of the bed. “Put your hand down his trousers?”

Louis rolls his eyes into the pillow before resurfacing. “Right, brilliant, I’ll just corner him, and put my hands down his trousers, and then I can do the play in a back brace when he knocks me unconscious and I shatter my vertebrae.”

“Hands in trousers always works for me,” Harry says mildly. “Anyway, he wouldn’t clock you, he’s not like that.”

“The reason it works for you is because you’re only putting your hand down Nick Grimshaw’s trousers, and he’s not captain of the football team. It’s...” He trails off, because what _is_ it? He doesn’t actually think Liam would hit him if he made a move on him, or even be upset. More likely Liam would apologize profusely, like it was somehow his fault that he’s both beautiful _and_ kind, and make Louis feel terrible by being incredibly _nice_ about the whole thing. And then they wouldn’t speak anymore, Liam would stop hanging around the theater, and Louis would wind up having to transfer schools in a fit of humiliation and agony. He’d rather not.

“It’s different,” he finishes weakly.

“It’s not, really,” Harry says, idly flipping a pen over the backs of his fingers before dropping it. “I liked Nick so I shoved my hand down his trousers. You like Liam, yeah?”

“I -- well,” Louis says, hedging, which is apparently answer enough for Harry.

“There you go,” Harry says, nodding sagely like he’s just revealed something very clever.

“You’re massively unhelpful,” Louis says, because Harry needs to know that. “Specifically right now, as well as just in general.”

“Probably,” he agrees, “but I think I’m right about this.” He swings his legs off the bed so they dangle limply and fidgets with his mobile. “I was like, intimidated by Nick too, yeah? He’s in uni and he’s so _cool_ , he’s got his own radio show and --”

“Right, no, I know all this,” Louis cuts him off, because if Harry gets started waxing poetic about Nick’s endless dreamy qualities they’ll be up all night. “And I’m not _intimidated_.”

“I’m just saying, it worked out alright in the end.” He shrugs again and flips open his mobile, texting someone, someone whose identity Louis thinks he can probably guess in one.

He wants to argue the point to Harry some more, but finds he can’t think of a way to, so he settles for swatting at Harry with a pillow instead.

-

Louis comes to the conclusion, though, that Harry’s advice is crap -- he needs to do the exact opposite of shoving his hand in Liam’s pants, however one does that. Probably through some spectacularly accomplished avoidance, he decides; by ignoring any and all stray thoughts about biceps and football uniforms and handsome blokes frowning over Shakespeare, and the best way to go about that will just be to avoid Liam altogether. Maybe if he can manage to smother the flames of his obsessive fire enough, they’ll go out.

Of course as soon as he comes to this conclusion, he spends the weekend violently tempted to do something stupid and counterproductive, like call Liam just to see what he’s doing on a Saturday afternoon. Probably something athletic and sweaty, Louis thinks, and then he makes the decision to turn off his mobile just in case his hands go rogue and try to text Liam on their own to ask if he happens to be wearing a shirt right now.

The safest thing, he thinks, is to put it out of his mind. He can be disciplined when he feels like it, and now’s just a chance to prove so. He goes over his lines for a while, even though he’s been off book for ages, and then makes a few notes about blocking and writes a reminder to shout at the girl who’s in charge of costumes for letting Sandy’s skirts get all wrinkled last week.

When there are no more feasible ways to keep himself busy with the play, he calls up Zayn and Harry and makes them sit around his basement and watch all three of the good Indiana Jones movies with him as a distraction. Harry only tries to make one smart comment about Liam and Louis gets his hand clamped over Harry’s mouth before he can even finish it, and keeps it there even when Harry tries to get him to drop it by licking the inside of his palm. Zayn possibly sleeps through the whole thing, although it’s hard to be sure with him, since he sometimes just closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep when he’s lost interest in whatever’s going on around him.

It’s harder, though, when he’s back at school, to distract himself from Liam, because Liam’s suddenly everywhere. They keep ending up next to each other in the hallway between periods, and Louis practically runs away each time, shouting out a strangled “hi” before bolting in the opposite direction, because he can’t think of what he might say if Liam falls into step next to him, but he’s sure it’ll be nothing very good.

Liam’s back in the theater again as well, but Louis determinedly keeps himself out of their back corner -- and he really shouldn’t be thinking of it as their corner at all, really. Instead he just waves from the stage where he makes sure to be always be busy, and tries not to look towards the back until he thinks Liam must’ve gone.

It works, sort of, or at least it must, because when Liam shows up on a Thursday afternoon, his shoulder are hunched self-consciously, and he nods at Louis nervously, like he’s not sure what to do next.

On Friday, he doesn’t turn up at all.

“Liam wants to know if you’re cross with him,” Zayn reports after a week and a half of it, dropping down gracefully besides Louis in the library. Louis is decidedly _not_ hiding there during his lunch period in the interest of avoiding catching Liam’s eye across the cafeteria. He’s got loads of work to do before exams in a few weeks, and a folder full of notes to go over for the play, is all.

“I’m only asking because he asked Niall to have me ask you, and Niall made a pathetic face at me, so I’m following orders. I’m not passing on any more messages, though, so feel free not to answer,” Zayn continues. He puts on his sunglasses on as if to punctuate his lack of interest.

“You’re inside,” Louis says. “You look like a prat.”

“Unlikely,” Zayn replies, and the terrible thing is that he’s right, if the way Abby Smith nervously drops her book bag when Zayn glances over at her is anything to go by.

“I’m not _cross_ , anyway,” Louis says, feeling the need to explain himself, although not necessarily to Zayn.

“Alright.”

“I’m just _busy_. The play’s mad, half the cast isn’t off book yet, and there’s exams and all that, and -- and I’m just very busy.”

“He says you won’t return his texts. At least that’s what Niall says.”

Louis winces, because Liam has texted him a few times, just short little things like _heyyy_ and _u good??_ that Louis had forced himself to ignore. “Well, I mean. Busy. Maybe you could mention to Niall how rehearsals have been mad?”

“No, nope, I’m not getting roped into this. If you’re not cross with him just tell him, I don’t want to play bloody telephone about it. D’you have any food? Harry ate my lunch on the drive this morning.”

Louis scowls but chucks half of a sandwich from his own bag at Zayn. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re delightful when you’re hungry? Just a treat to be around.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn says cheerfully, mouth full of Louis’ food.

-

After Liam stopped turning up in the theater, Louis figured that’d be it -- that they’d go their separate ways, go back to the way it’d been before, and silently agree to pretend like the last few months hadn’t happened.

He absolutely does not expect to turn up at his locker after his final class one Friday to see Liam leaning up against it, arms crossed over his chest.

Louis stops several meters down the hall. They’re the only ones around, so he knows Liam’s seen him, and his jacket and all his things are in his locker, so he can’t very well turn around and leave the way he came. He swallows hard, and then steels himself and makes his way down the hall.

“Liam, hey,” he greets nervously when he gets to him. He suddenly feels really and truly rotten for giving Liam the slip, even if it had been in the interest of self-preservation.

“Are you cross with me?” Liam asks straight away. He doesn’t sound cross himself, even though he perhaps ought to -- instead he just seems uncomfortable, and a bit sad, and his eyes are doing that wounded puppy thing again. It makes Louis feel even more rotten, if that’s even possible.

“No,” he says slowly. “Why d’you ask?”

Liam uncrosses his arms and runs a hand across his hair, moving aside so Louis can get at his locker. “Just, like, you seem -- you seem like you’ve been avoiding me. And, like, it’s fine, you don’t have to, like -- just, I wanted to know if I’ve done something, that’s all.”

Louis deflates, guilty, and has to busy himself with unlocking his locker while he sorts out what he wants to say. “No, honestly, I promise you haven’t,” he says when he’s finally got his locker open and all his things out of it. He turns to face Liam, and Jesus, it’s disgustingly unfair of him to look this fit while Louis has to figure out how to apologize for being such an arse. “I’ve just been absolutely mad with the play, and I’m behind in almost every class, so I’ve just been--” He means to say _busy_ again, but that’s not quite right. “An arse,” he finishes. “I’m sorry. It’s seriously not to do with you, though, yeah?”

Liam nods, and he visibly relaxes, like he’d been seriously worried that he’d done something to upset Louis. It’s -- it’s all very bizarre, Louis can’t help but thinking, especially since less than three months ago, he’d been sure that Liam Payne didn’t even know who he was.

“Alright,” Liam says, and he smiles at Louis, a little hesitant. “Good, then, because I was ready to apologize for it, but I really hadn’t any idea what it might have been.”

They start to walk to the car park, and when they get halfway through it, Liam turns to Louis. “D’you need a ride?”

Louis had meant to find Harry and have him drive him home, but he thinks if he dodges Liam again, it’ll probably undermine his whole apology thing, and he really, really doesn’t want to make Liam get that sad look on his face again, so instead he says, “That’d be great, yeah.”

When they pull into the drive in front of Louis’ house ten minutes later, Liam turns off the engine and looks at Louis. “I know you’re busy, but d’you reckon you might want to help me revise again sometime?”

“Am I actually helping at all?” Louis asks.

Liam laughs. “Not really, no, but it’s nice to have company anyway.”

There’s a distinctly twisting feeling that’s settling itself in Louis’ stomach right now -- something between guilt and want and pleased warmth. His gut tells him to say no, because it’d been torturous enough the first time, but the part of him that feels like the world’s biggest twat for upsetting Liam by avoiding him is louder. He knows he’s almost certainly fucked, because there’s no way he can say no.

“Alright, yeah,” he says.

“Are you free tomorrow?” Liam asks, and he looks so earnestly pleased that Louis can’t help but swallow hard, feeling a bit helpless.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees. Maybe he’ll get lucky, he thinks as he waves to Liam as he drives away -- maybe he’ll die in his sleep tonight and avoid the whole thing.

-

Louis wakes up very much alive the next day, and makes it through all of school and his rehearsals without dying as well, so that’s. Something, at least. He refuses to ask Harry for a ride to Liam’s once play practice is over, because that would involve tell him where he’s going, and why, and that will inevitably turn into a _thing_ , and Harry will be all smart comments and smug faces about it, and really, no, Louis would rather not. So he walks, instead, because he’d rather have the chance to clear his head before he gets there instead of letting Harry wind him up.

Which is a good idea, in theory -- until the rain starts, steady and a bit chilly, while he’s still got more than ten minutes of walking to go.

“Well,” he says, turning his face up to the rain. “Bollocks.”

-

He’s soaked by the time he gets to Liam’s house. Absolutely soaked all the way through. He thinks his shoes will never be the same again. He’s only managed to salvage his bag of school books by shoving it under his sweatshirt, and even then, it feels like it’s getting a bit damp too.

“Hi,” he says when Liam answers his front door. He tries to say it with dignity and grace, but it’s hard when there’s rain dripping in his eyes.

“I could’ve given you a _ride_ ,” Liam protests, looking offended on Louis’ behalf as he lets him in and follows Louis up the stairs to his room. Louis just shrugs.

“Unnecessary.” He drops his bag at the foot of Liam’s bed, shifting a bit awkwardly, because he’s suddenly remembering the last time he was here -- how he’d been so sure that Liam had been about to kiss him, and, as it turned out, very wrong about it. He feels uncomfortable, and mostly for reasons other than how he’s dripping rain all over Liam’s carpet, although that’s a factor as well.

“You can, um. Are you cold?” Liam asks. “I could get you some clothes that aren’t all wet, if you like.”

And Louis can think about about a thousand reasons off the top of his head why he should say no, and given a bit of time could probably double that number, because the idea of sitting around Liam’s room and wearing Liam’s clothes is enough to make him feel a bit asthmatic, suddenly, but on the other hand -- on the other hand sitting around soaking wet isn’t normal, either, and his trousers are soaked through and he might be shivering a bit, so.

“Alright,” he agrees. He hopes his face is managing to do something normal and casual about it.

Liam rummages around in his wardrobe until he finds an old football sweatshirt and a pair of track pants for Louis, and hands them to him with a smile that makes it look like Louis is doing him the favor instead of the other way around.

“Thanks,” Louis manages to say before letting himself into the toilet attached to Liam’s bedroom. Once he’s there he steals a towel to dry off his hair as best he can, but it’s mostly a lost cause, so he resigns to letting it droop down, fluffy and out of shape, before peeling off his soaking clothes and hanging them over the top of the shower curtain.

He eyes the pile of Liam’s neatly folded clothes on the counter suspiciously, as if it’s a bomb about to go off. It’s only soft cotton and fleece, but it still takes him a moment before shaking his head and pulling them on.

The sweatshirt is miles too big for him, the neck stretched out and the cuffs frayed, and the trackies are too long. He feels like he’s playing dress-up, sort of, but at the same time it feels warm, and cozy. He thinks he shouldn’t let himself enjoy it too much, shouldn’t get used to it, but he still smiles at his reflection in the mirror all the same.

“Bit big,” he says a bit ruefully as he lets himself back into Liam’s bedroom, trying not to trip on the overly long hem of the trackies. Liam just laughs at him, and pulls a truly massive pile of books and notebooks onto his lap, clearing a spot for Louis next to him at the foot of his bed.

-

Louis does finally manage to get his heart rate to mostly level, eventually, settling into something like a companionable silence while Liam focuses intently on his battered copy of Hamlet and Louis pretends to be doing something beyond doodling stick figures in the margin of his maths notebook. It carries on raining outside, tapping on the windowpane when there’s a gust of wind, and the room is warm, and it’s all very cozy and soothing, despite the knots he’s managed to twist himself into. And if his pulse happens to skip around a bit when he shifts and gets a wave of the smell of Liam’s sweatshirt -- clean and soft and so very _Liam_ that he wants to bury his nose in it and breathe in until he can’t anymore -- well, he mostly ignores it. Sort of.

“The play’s soon, yeah?” Liam asks after a bit.

“Starts Friday,” Louis agrees.

“Nervous?”

“Are you nervous for your football match next week? Or your track meet tomorrow?” Louis asks in return.

Liam crinkles his eyes at him, looking pleased. “I didn’t know you knew our schedule by heart.”

“I, um.” Louis thinks he’s made a misstep, now, because Liam is still smiling, peering at him like he’s gotten Louis to reveal a secret. It’s possible he has, actually, because Louis hadn’t realized he knew Liam’s schedule by heart either, until this moment. “Zayn just mentioned, is all,” he says weakly.

“So should I expect you at a match, then?” Liam asks, and Louis has to look down at his notebook, because God help him, he thinks he’s _blushing_.

“Not until the play is over at least,” he says into his maths notes. He can’t be sure, but he suspects Liam is still smiling at him.

To distract himself, he bends to shuffle through his bag at the foot of the bed, pulling out another pile of books. When he hauls them up onto the bed, though, a familiar slip of paper flutters out from between them, and lands, open, on Liam’s knee.

Louis feels his stomach drop, because he doesn’t know exactly what’s written on that piece of paper -- he hadn’t known it was there in the first place -- but he recognizes it enough anyway, and he can guess.

He moves to grab it away, but Liam’s already got a hand on it, peering at the dark scrawl on it, his eyebrows drawing down into a confused frown.

Louis takes the opportunity to pull it away, crumpling it shut so he doesn’t see what’s on it, but he knows with a sickening certainty that Liam’s already seen it.

“Louis?” Liam asks, gazing up at Louis with a question on his face. “What’s this?” He reaches over and pulls it out of Louis’ hands again.

“Nothing, really,” Louis says, reaching over to snatch it back, but Liam’s already got it open and is reading it again. Louis watches his expression go dark.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Louis protests softly.

“D’you know who wrote it?” Liam asks quietly, and for the first time his voice sounds almost dangerous.

Louis shrugs. It was almost certainly Andy, but he’s not about to say it, doesn’t want to make trouble for Liam, because Andy’s on the football team as well, and Liam’s got a relay with him at the next track meet.

“Do you -- does this sort of thing happen a lot?” Liam asks, and the sad way he’s looking at Louis makes him want to scream a little. Louis doesn’t need his _pity_ , he’s used to it all by now, and it just -- it doesn’t matter.

“Not that often,” he lies.

“Really?” Liam asks, and the tone of his voice makes it clear he doesn’t believe Louis one bit.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Louis says, trying to sound firm. “I don’t care what they say, it’s all stupid anyway.”

“It _does_ matter, Lou, this is -- this is rubbish.”

Louis just shrugs helplessly, suddenly feeling very small in Liam’s sweatshirt.

“Ignore it,” he says. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though!” Liam says. It’s more of a shout, actually, and Louis thinks it’s the first time he’s heard Liam sound angry.

“Look, Liam,” he says, not sure what to do next. “Please don’t make a big deal out of this, okay? Like... please?”

Liam looks like he wants to do the exact opposite of that, but instead he just clenches his jaw and nods once. “Alright,” he says. “Tell me about what you’re revising, then.”

Louis takes a moment to study him -- the sharp line of his jaw as he pretends not to be bothered, and the set of his broad shoulders, and Louis wants to curl up against him, let Liam be the one to deal with this, to take care of him. But instead just flips the pages of his history notebook, the nearest one at hand, open to something at least sort of recent, and scoots over next to Liam as he shows him.

-

During their dress rehearsal the next day, Mr. Whitshaw’s actually shown up, and has decided that he apparently needs to take things firm in hand, because he’s making them run through the third act over and over and _over_. Louis already knows his part inside and out, all he needs to focus on is not running into the rest of the cast if they mess up their steps or their blocking, so his mind has wandered enough that when the back door of the theater opens, he notices straight away.

He also notices straight away that it’s Liam who’s opened it, and who’s now standing in the doorway looking uncomfortable, even though he’s supposed to be running a relay in a track meet right now. That part’s odd -- to Louis’ knowledge, Liam has never bunked off so much as a practice for any of his teams, let alone something important, like an actual meet.

As soon as the scene’s over, Louis catches Mr. Whitshaw’s eye and waves his hand in a way that he hopes communicates that they ought to take a break now. It must work, because Mr. Whitshaw calls for a fifteen minute break to “get their heads in the proper space,” and Louis is hopping down from the stage before he even finishes, pointedly ignoring Harry’s curious stare.

Liam’s halfway up the aisle by the time he gets to him, and when the house lights hit him the right way, Louis sees that Liam’s got a black eye and a small cut on the high arc of his cheekbone.

“Jesus, Liam, what’s that?” he asks. “And, like, what are you doing here, also?”

“Um, I --” Liam glances around a bit nervously, eyes lingering on the stage behind Louis. When he turns, Harry has planted himself on the edge of the stage and isn’t even bothering to disguise his staring at them -- the twat actually has his chin resting on his fist, Louis realizes. “Are you busy? Could we maybe go somewhere?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, okay,” Louis agrees. He leads him off to one of the side entrances to the backstage area, where the rest of the crew is milling around, fiddling with the curtains or finding their bags to pull out their mobiles. “Just -- here,” he says, leading Liam into one of the cramped little rooms they use for quick changes just off the wings. There’s one small bench and a chair, and he shuts the door behind them, leaving up against the wall. “You’re supposed to be running,” he says, frowning a bit at Liam. “What’s going on?”

Liam looks shy, suddenly, crossing one arm across his body to scratch at his elbow. “I sort of, um. Got suspended?”

Louis knows that in real life people’s jaws don’t drop, but his probably comes close to it, at that. “You got -- suspended,” he repeats, like if he can try out the words they might make more sense. But they don’t, because Liam’s the most orderly, rule-abiding person Louis knows, so he can’t make it work out to anything that adds up right.

“From the team,” Liam clarifies. “For two weeks. For, um. Fighting. With Andy. He started talking crap before warm ups, and I just -- I dunno, I snapped, I guess?” His face is twisted around apologetically, like he’s trying to silently ask Louis not to be cross with him, not to disapprove.

“Okay,” Louis says mildly. “Um. What was he saying, then?”

Liam shakes his head. “M’not gonna say it, it was foul and stupid, and, just --” He scowls again, and for a moment Louis can see the Liam who might hit someone if they really deserved it, who might be a bit dangerous to go up against if he wanted to be.

“But it was about me,” Louis says, because it’s obvious enough, but he thinks it needs to be out there officially. “He said something like one of those notes, and then you -- what, hit him?”

“Only a little,” Liam says, face going soft and apologetic again.

“And then he hit you back?” Louis asks.

Liam laughs a little at that, which Louis doesn’t expect. “No, um. Niall got between us, and I sort of -- sort of tripped over a pair of trainers trying to get away and ran into a wall of lockers.” He shrugs sheepishly.

“You ran into lockers.” Louis knows it’s annoying for him to keep on parroting everything back at Liam, but he’s honestly having trouble processing all of this -- of thinking about Liam getting angry enough to _hit_ someone, and to do it over Louis.

Liam just nods. “So, like. That’s why I’m here? I just wanted -- I dunno. I got suspended from the team and my coach’s well angry, but Andy’s suspended too, and I don’t feel bad about it. I’d do it again.” Louis can tell he means it.

“I just,” Louis starts, because he’s not sure what he’s about to say, but he knows he ought to say _something_ to that. “I just don’t understand why you’d do something that _stupid_ , Liam.”

Liam looks surprised, like that’s not the reaction he’d been expecting at all, and Louis crosses his arms across his chest.

“You could’ve gotten _hurt_ , or really gotten in trouble, and it’s just not _worth_ it,” Louis explains. “Andy’s an idiot, but hitting him won’t change it, and I don’t -- you don’t need to get in trouble over me.”

Liam is silent for a moment, his face going from confused to resolved to gentle one right after the other, and then he’s crossing the tiny room so he’s right in front of Louis, taking up almost all the space in the room suddenly.

“It’s not just about you, Lou,” Liam says softly, and he’s very close now, his hand hovering just an inch from Louis’ arm. “They shouldn’t -- they shouldn’t say those things about _anyone_ , and it just gets, like. Hard to hear, after a bit. On a personal level. D’you know what I mean?”

Louis thinks he does, but Louis has thought a lot of things in his life that turned out to be wrong. “I think so,” he says anyway.

“It’s just -- it’s always been stupid, and I hated hearing it, and I probably should’ve hit Andy ages ago. But.”

“But you don’t fight,” Louis answers. “You don’t break the rules.”

“Well, maybe I should’ve,” Liam says firmly. “But then -- I dunno, when it was about you, I just -- no one should have to put up with that, but especially not you, Lou, not when you’re so--”

Louis wants to ask Liam to finish that sentence, wants to know what he is that makes Liam think he’s special, but before he can, Liam is leaning in, and he tells himself not to believe it, tells himself not to get his hopes up because this doesn’t happen, he doesn’t snog sports stars in closets, but apparently he does, because then Liam’s kissing him, and Louis can’t think much at all anymore.

“Oh,” Louis finally says when Liam pulls away.

“Louis!” Eleanor yells from outside the door. “Whitshaw says to get out here immediately or he’ll replace you!”

“He wouldn’t,” Louis protests weakly, because he wants to kiss Liam again, doesn’t want to stop kissing Liam, possibly ever, but Liam is pulling away, disentangling himself from Louis and smiling at him.

“You should go,” Liam says softly. “Opening night, yeah?”

“But I know what I’m doing,” Louis says.

“They need you, though.” Liam is straightening his jumper where it’s gone a bit wrinkled, and Louis wants to latch onto him and press him up against the wall just to mess him up again.

“Can I see you afterward?” Louis asks.

Liam smiles at him. “‘Course,” he says. “I’ll stay here until you’re done.”

-

Liam is still waiting when rehearsal is over, in the spot in the back of the theater where he’d first spoke to Louis.

“It’s going to be brilliant,” Liam says as he leads Louis out to the car park where his car is waiting. The sun’s starting to set, casting the car park in shades of muted pink and orange, and Louis knows Liam means the play, but he thinking of something else entirely when he smiles and says, “Yeah, it is.”

When they get to Louis’ house, Liam walks him to the front door -- actually _walks him to the front door_ \-- and presses a kiss to the very corner of Louis’ mouth before turning back to the car and driving away with a wave.

Louis will never admit to anyone, especially not to Harry, not even under extreme duress, how long he stands there after Liam goes, watching the spot where his car disappears around a corner with his fingertips pressed gently to the edge of his own lip.

-

On Thursday -- after the last rehearsal before the play opens, and Liam’s track meet that he’s suspended from but still hands around to watch anyway -- Louis pulls Liam up to his room, trying to get past his mum as quickly as he possible can. It takes over fifteen minutes of Jay fawning over Liam and offering him food, which in Louis’ opinion, is a lot less worse than it could have been, although by the end Jay is absolutely smitten. Louis think there’s a distinct possibility that he may wind up disinherited so his mum can adopt Liam in his stead.

“Sorry,” he apologizes once they finally make it upstairs, shrugging at Liam as he flops down on his back onto Louis’ bed. “She’s a bit... much, sometimes?”

“She’s great,” Liam says, reaching forward to grab Louis by the wrist and pull him down so he’s lying next to him. Louis agrees with him, actually, knows how absolutely great he’s got it with his mum, but that still doesn’t make the fact that she can be a bit enthusiastic untrue. He’s just glad she’s the only one home -- if the twins hadn’t been at a friend’s house, he’s sure they’d be clinging to Liam’s legs like spider monkeys right now, talking faster than any human can reasonably keep up with.

“Hi,” Louis says instead of any of that. He’s very close to Liam, and even though Louis knows it’s _allowed_ now, it still makes his heart race

“Hi,” Liam says back, smiling as he curls an arm around Louis. Louis smiles too, and tucks his head into the space above Liam’s collarbone.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Louis asks after a moment.

“Sure.”

“Please don’t punch anyone else for me, yeah?” he asks quietly. He twists around so he’s looking up at Liam.

“If they deserve it, though,” Liam protests, his lips turning down at the edges. Louis takes a breath, because he’s still not used to being able to do this, but steels himself anyway, and angles his chin up so he can kiss Liam, sweet and soft, until he stops frowning.

“Alright, yeah,” Liam agrees when Louis pulls away. “Hurt my hand something terrible, anyway,” he says.

“Is that so?” Louis ask, reaching down to grab Liam’s right hand. “This one?” he asks, bringing it up to inspect it.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, nodding.

His hand looks fine, not even bruised, but Louis glances at his fading black eye, and the cut along his cheek that’s starting to heal, and feels something go through him, concern and warmth and gratefulness all at once.

“Thanks,” he says, and presses Liam’s knuckles against his lips, kissing them softly, before letting his hand drop loosely between them. “I mean, don’t do it again, but... thanks, you know. For, like, sticking up for me. Not that I need you to, though.”

Liam looks at him with such a fond expression on his face that Louis has to look down, look anywhere else except Liam’s face, so open and sweet that it makes Louis feel like he’s on display, too exposed.

“‘Course,” Liam says, and then he reaches under Louis’ chin, forcing him to look up at him. “C’mere, yeah?”

Louis lets himself be manhandled until he’s kneeling over Liam’s lap, knees spread out on either side of his hips. Liam looks at him softly again, but when he pulls him in for a kiss, it’s only soft for a moment. Louis feels warmth curling through him, his pulse speed up when Liam kisses into his mouth firmly. “Is this alright?” Liam asks, pulling back for a moment, and Louis can only nod, and then Liam’s mouth is on his again, hot and sweet, his lips soft even as he presses into Louis insistently.

He starts a bit when he feels Liam’s hand press up under the hem of his t-shirt, but then Liam’s thumbs are smoothing softly over his hip bones, and the dip in the small of his back, and Louis relaxes, feels himself start to melt into Liam’s touch. He wants to touch back, wants to press Liam down and put his hands on every part of him that he can, wants to make Liam sigh and squirm and melt the way Louis feels like he’s doing now. He can feel himself getting hard, his tight trousers just starting to become uncomfortable, but he barely notices it, because he can feel Liam under him as well, pressing into Louis’ thigh as he shifts his hips carefully, and that’s -- distracting. It’s not the first time Louis has done this, there have been other blokes before Liam, but -- but it almost feels like there hasn’t been. They’ve all been cousins of a friend of a friend, from out of town, or from other schools, or once, a fit uni boy he’d met in a club. And every time it’d been fun, yeah, but it’d also been rushed, been a one-off, over before it’d begun, really. This, with Liam -- it feels like it’s more than that.

“Jesus,” he whines, pulling away. “You’re going to kill me.” He sits back so he’s pressed less firmly against Liam, and Liam makes the most pathetically disappointed face that Louis has ever seen -- and he’d laugh at it if he didn’t feel exactly the same. He doesn’t want to move away, he wants to crowd up as close to Liam as he can, to take his time and find out where Liam has freckles and birthmarks and everything else he can find out, but -- “My mum,” he explains. “And my sisters’ll be home soon, and -- fuck.” He thinks of the mercilessly thin walls of his bedroom, and his door that doesn’t look, and Fizz’s propensity to barge in without knocking, and sighs wearily at his awful, cruel bad luck -- he’s got the most fit boy on the planet in his bed, and he can’t do anything about it.

Liam’s still making the face, but he nods, and shifts around so he’s not quite underneath Louis anymore, so they wind up more side by side, sprawled halfway down Louis’ bed. “It’s okay,” he says, and snakes his arm around Louis’ waist so he can curl them closer. “I mean, I want -- I want... this,” he says, blushing a bit as he says it, “but... yeah, probably not if we’re about to be walked in on.” He smiles at Louis, and for some reason that’s what does it for Louis, what makes him realize how absolutely, completely fucked he’s about to be -- nearly already is -- over this boy. The need to be kissing him redoubles, and Louis hauls himself back in, pressing as many kisses to Liam’s lips and jaw as he thinks he can risk before losing all hope of stopping himself from doing something foolish.

“This is terrible,” he moans, resting his face briefly in the curve of Liam’s neck for a moment as he pulls away. “All I’m going to want to do is snog you now, but there’s the play, and you’ve got football, we won’t have any time, and there’s no _privacy_ in this bloody house, and just--”

“Hey,” Liam says, nudging him softly in the side. “It’s alright, yeah? There’ll be time.”

Louis blinks up at him. Liam’s still smiling, and his arm is still around Louis’ waist, and when he snuggles Louis in tighter and repeats it -- “there’ll be time,” Louis believes him.

-

He thinks he’s going to lose his mind. It’s the first day of the play, and even though they’ve been working like mad, he’s still convinced -- as he always is -- that it’ll be a disaster, that the sets will collapse and everyone will miss their marks and Harry’s voice will somehow disappear in the middle of a song, and then he’ll have to quit the drama club and relocate to a new town with a new identity to escape the shame of it all.

And then, of course, it goes spectacularly.

And it’s not perfect, and technically it’s just the Friday evening run, when it’s mostly other students in the audience, and traditionally if there are any catastrophes they wait until Saturday, when Louis is lulled into a false sense of security, but -- but they’ve still done it, they’ve pulled it off, and when Harry pinches his side and grins at him as they take a bow afterward, he can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face.

Afterward, when he’s trailing around backstage, trying to straighten things for tomorrow’s matinee and letting the adrenaline course happily through him, someone knocks, and he startles. When he turns around, Liam is there, leaning against the door frame to the dressing room, smiling at him fondly.

“Hey,” Liam says, crossing the small room in three steps until he’s right up against Louis, one hand on his hip, before leaning in, pressing one soft kiss against the spot where Louis’ mouth turns into his cheek.

“You were brilliant,” Liam says when he pulls back, his whole face beaming. Louis has never been shy, not even close, but the proud way Liam is looking at him makes him want to hide, a little. “I mean, I know I’ve seen you in rehearsals, but it’s different when it’s for real. You were just -- brilliant.”

“Well,” says Louis, ducking his eyes. He’s usually the first one to admit when he’s brilliant, but he can’t bring himself to it now.

“Are you busy now?” Liam asks. “D’you have like, a cast party or something?”

Louis shakes his head, and his hair doesn’t move from all the product that has it slicked back into a quiff. He thinks he kind of likes the look -- maybe he’ll keep it up even once the play’s done. “Not until after the show Sunday night,” he says. “We’re supposed to take it easy tonight since we’ve got an afternoon show tomorrow, and everyone always gets pissed at our parties, so now they’re banned until closing night. Harry threw up on stage during a monologue once, before that rule.” He doesn’t mention that he’d been the one to set Harry off since he’d also been vomiting loudly into a bucket just off stage, and the sound had apparently been too much for Harry’s hangover. It doesn’t seem like Liam needs to know that bit.

“So -- you’ll be going home then?” Liam asks, sounding like he hopes Louis will disagree.

“Well, probably,” Louis says, trying not to enjoy the way Liam’s face falls a bit. “But you’re coming with me, yeah?”

Liam smiles and pulls Louis in close, resting his hands on the curve of Louis’ waist as he leans down to kiss him. “So you’re done here?” he asks. He doesn’t press in closer to Louis, but he does reach out to grab his hand, and he doesn’t let go.

Louis glances around the dressing room, and the hall, and there’s still messes strewn everywhere, he’ll have to come in unspeakably early tomorrow to put it all in order, but then he glances down at where Liam’s got his hand, and suddenly wants nothing more than to get out of there so he can be properly alone with Liam.

He switches off the lights and shuts the door behind him, and they head out into the empty corridor, Liam holding his hand firmly the whole way.

When they reach the double doors that separate the theater from the rest of the school, though, Louis gently pulls his hand out of Liam’s, trying not to notice the pang he feels in his chest as he does.

Because he knows that outside the doors, there are still loads of people milling around, parents and teachers and students, masses of them. And he knows that if he walks through the doors holding hands with Liam Payne, people will notice it. And that’s -- it wouldn’t be the worst thing for him, but for Liam -- for Liam, it might cause problems.

“You don’t have to,” Louis says apologetically, hoping that’s enough of an explanation to keep them from having to have any awkward conversation about it, but Liam only frowns at him.

“Why can’t I hold your hand?”

Louis shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t want to, just -- your mates, on the team, like. I know they’ll give you trouble for it, so just... you don’t have to, that’s all.”

Liam frowns, not at Louis, but at something else, and for a moment he looks sort of threatening, all traces of softness gone from his face. But then he looks down at Louis and sighs, eyes going wide and sweet again. “They’re idiots,” he finally says, and reaches over and tangles his fingers firmly with Louis’ again. “Alright? I want to, if it’s okay with you, so just -- forget them. Is this okay?”

Louis looks down at their hands, Liam’s big one covering his own, and he feels a surge of panic and fondness all at once. Because it would be easier to pry his own hand away and not let it turn into a _thing_ \-- it would be easier, it would be enough to hole Liam up in his bedroom and have him all in secret. Louis hasn’t ever really thought about letting himself have this, except now all of a sudden he is, and it’s terrifying, a bit, but all of a sudden it hits him like a wave how badly he wants it -- wants Liam, wants everything.

He finds that he can’t turn it down now that it’s being offered to him.

“Alright,” he agrees, squeezing Liam’s hand back firmly. He can hear everyone milling around outside in the hall, and the nerves he’d felt earlier about the play seem like nothing, now, with the way his stomach is twisting as he thinks about pushing open the door. He knows that if he stands there too long he might start to doubt himself, so before he can start, he leans in once to kiss Liam, lightly, and then takes a breath and puts his hand on the knob of the door.


End file.
